


Comes Our End

by enigmaticblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-08
Updated: 2010-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-08 19:07:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the end of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comes Our End

“Dean?” He didn’t turn, he couldn’t. He couldn’t face anyone right now. “It’s tomorrow.”

“You got word?”

“Yes.” Anna sat down next to him on the bed, putting a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

“More than.” His voice was hoarse, ragged. He knew it sounded like he was crying, and Dean hated the way his voice broke. He kept his face turned away from her, not wanting to reveal undoubtedly red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “I’m not walking away from this, Anna.”

“Dean—”

“I need you to pass on a message to Bobby.” Dean tried to summon the words. “Tell him thanks. For everything. He’ll understand.” He wished he could say more, but that wasn’t how Dean worked; it wasn’t how Bobby worked either.

“Of course, you know I will.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Anything else?”

“What? Like a last meal?” Dean laughed bitterly. “Get the guy who’s going to save the world whatever the hell he wants, is that it?”

Anna was silent, probably because there was nothing she _could_ say. She rested her arm across his shoulders, pulling him close and resting her head against his. “I’m sorry we couldn’t save him, Dean.”

Dean swallowed his tears. “Yeah. I should have been faster.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“He’s my brother.”

“He wanted to save you.”

“Well, he succeeded.” Dean clenched his jaw. “I’m the important one now, right? I started it; I have to end it.”

“He carried his own share of guilt, Dean.”

“This wasn’t his fault!” Dean burst out. “If the angels—if Zachariah…” He stopped, unable to say that it was his fault, too. If only he hadn’t broken, Sam would be alive, and Dean wouldn’t have had to kill Lucifer at all.

Anna’s hands fell away as Dean stood, beginning to pace the room, feeling as though his skin was too tight, like it would be better if he could shed it. “You’re right,” she said calmly. “This wouldn’t have happened if Zachariah and his ilk hadn’t been trying to bring about the apocalypse.”

She ignored what he hadn’t said, and Dean was grateful for it, but hearing Anna acknowledge the angels’ role in this mess didn’t make Dean feel any better. Sam was still dead, and he’d died saving Dean.

And tomorrow, Dean was certain that he would die killing Lucifer.

Anna rose and put her hands on his shoulders, stopping his frenetic movements, standing on her toes to press her lips to his. After a moment, Dean returned the kiss, feeling the soft fabric of her t-shirt, the heat of her body, the softness of her lips. Just like the first time, this was comfort, solace.

This was also goodbye.

Of all the angels Dean had met, and he’d met more than a few at this point, Anna was the only one who had never lied to him, who had never betrayed him.

But she wasn’t the one who had nearly Fallen for him.

She drew back first, giving him a knowing look as he pulled away, feeling both shame that he had momentarily forgotten his grief, and a desire to lose himself in another, if only for a time—even if it wasn’t with Anna. “Castiel should be here soon.”

They hadn’t left him alone since Sam’s death. Someone—Castiel, Anna, Bobby—was always with him, although Dean wasn’t planning on doing anything stupid. He couldn’t. There was no selling his soul again, tarnished as it was, and even death wasn’t a temptation, not when he knew where he was likely to end up.

Anna tilted her head, probably hearing the same rustle of wings that Dean heard a split second later. Castiel appeared near the door, facing the two of them, the same grim expression on his face that he’d worn since Dean had met him.

Dean abruptly wondered if Castiel ever smiled, if angels were even made for joy, and he wondered what it would take to make Cas laugh.

He wished he’d have the chance to find out.

Dean saw Anna’s eyes meet Castiel’s, and they appeared to communicate without words. They did that a lot these days, and he always felt as though they were talking about him.

“I’ll keep watch.” Anna pressed her hand to Dean’s cheek. “Get some rest, Dean.”

She was gone in the next moment, and Dean turned away, not looking at Castiel. “You don’t have to stay. I’ll be fine.”

“You shouldn’t be alone, Dean.”

“Sam’s dead. I’m as alone as it gets.”

“Dean—”

He knew he should probably apologize. Castiel had been a real stand-up guy; he’d tried to save Sam, had saved Dean’s ass half a dozen times, and had risked everything for Dean. He was a true comrade.

But that didn’t mean Dean wasn’t alone.

“Dean.” This time Castiel’s deep, impossible voice was accompanied by a hand on his shoulder. He thought this might be the first time Castiel had touched him when it wasn’t some sort of emergency—when Cas wasn’t pulling him out of danger.

Castiel gripped his shoulder tightly. “Dean.” The angel spoke his name like an invocation, but Dean could not bring himself to look at Cas. He could not bring himself to see the regret in Castiel’s eyes, the inevitability of his own demise, the pity.

Mostly, Dean couldn’t deal with the pity. He knew what was coming.

Castiel wasn’t dissuaded, and he drew Dean closer. The invasion of his personal space was nothing new, but this felt different. This didn’t feel like intimidation, or ignorance of human social conventions. Slowly, awkwardly, Cas pulled him close.

Dean tried to pull away at first. It was too awkward; the angel’s form was as unyielding as his face had been the last time Dean had struck him. Castiel was nothing like Sam, and all Dean really wanted was his brother.

Castiel refused to budge, however, and something in his grim determination to offer Dean what comfort he could broke down Dean’s defenses. He was supposed to kill Lucifer tomorrow; Dean was supposed to stop the apocalypse that _he_ had started.

It was more than he could bear alone, and Cas was here.

Dean grabbed fistfuls of Castiel’s ever-present trench coat, and Cas held him tightly, his inhuman strength incongruous given his average build. Cas’ hand cradled the back of his head, and Dean took a deep breath, trying to pull himself together.

“You will not fail,” Castiel murmured. “You will defeat Lucifer.”

“I’m not going to survive this,” Dean whispered, unable to complete his thought.

Castiel’s hands tightened convulsively. “You will not go to Hell, Dean, if that’s what you fear.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Even if God were so unjust, I would drag you out again.”

“And Sam?” Dean finally voiced the fear that had been haunting him since his brother’s death.

Castiel pulled back to look him in the eyes. “No greater love has a man than he lay down his life for his brother.”

Dean shook his head. “But he was—”

“He was a man who loved you, and in the end, he did the right thing.” Castiel kept one hand on the back of Dean’s head, the other gripped Dean’s shoulder over the scar he’d left. It was no longer the only scar Dean had. “There is no such thing as an unforgivable sin, Dean.”

Dean wanted to believe that, but he didn’t think he could. He could only hope that tomorrow, if—when—he sent the devil back to hell, it would balance out his crimes. He would take non-existence over Hell any day, even if he didn’t make it into heaven.

He heard Castiel’s sigh, and Dean wondered if the angel had read his thoughts as he so often seemed to do. Cas always insisted that God alone could read the hearts of men, but he had a downright spooky ability to read Dean.

“You should get some sleep,” Castiel said, dropping his hands but not moving otherwise.

Dean shook his head, knowing exactly what would happen if he made his confession. And yet, he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do before he died. “I can’t sleep. I haven’t been able to since Sam…”

Cas gave him the look that Dean had come to recognize as him being sneaky. “Tonight, you’ll rest. You need your strength.”

Dean wasn’t sure how Cas did it, but he was lying on the lumpy hotel mattress a few seconds later, clothes and boots still on. “Sleep,” Castiel said, leaning over to press dry lips to Dean’s forehead in what felt like a benediction. Lips were replaced by a callused hand. “I will be here.”

And the night before the end, Dean slept and dreamt of bright, sun-drenched fields, of snowy wings, of Sam, whole and hearty, and of peace. And the next morning, the first thing Dean saw were Castiel’s impossibly blue eyes, filled with the sort of faith only Sam had had in him before.

Just for a moment, Dean could believe.


End file.
